Like Dew

Chapter 1

       "I understand that this is important to you.  I don't understand what you are trying to say."

       "You know," I said.  "It doesn't matter.  I really don't want to talk about it anymore.  I really don't.  I'm just feeling...blah...and I'm complaining.  I actually feel better just rambling about it.  I think I'll go for a hot bath.  I'll talk to you later.  I love you."

       "I love you, too.  Feel better."

       "Thanks."

       I had to end that conversation.  I hated my own 'woe is me' liturgy before I began it.  I couldn't bear that I was suddenly in the uber-cute situation of my mother not understanding my description of feeling misunderstood.  It's ironic, in a Care Bear, Rainbow Bright sort of way.  It's also pathetic, in a pre-teen who wears an ankh and black lipstick sort of way.  Nothing about that conversation needed to continue.

       I exercised, alternating speed rope and weights, showered, spent an hour looking at online pornography then I masturbated on the toilet with my electric toothbrush.  There was a message on my machine from Dauphine.  It made me happy, why I had missed her call.  It made me sad that I had nobody I could tell that to. 

       Dauphine is nauseatingly pretentious.  But she's clever and has a wealth of interesting friends.  And she pursues me.  This is important.  See, I hide.  It's what I do.  So, unlike most people who choose their friends based on qualities they enjoy and admire, my friends are a radom assortment of weirdos who are willing to hunt me down and drag me into society, kicking and screaming.  And all of them baffle me endlessly.

       So, you see, when I whined to my mother that nobody gets me, it isn't that I feel I'm complex to the point of being opaque.  I know there are people in this world with whom I could identify, who would identify with me.  I'm just not capable of slotting myself into their lives.

       Dauphine is a particularly dogged weirdo.  I can't imagine her ever wanting to wear the ankh and black lipstick but she would never have had to.  She is genetically Gothic.  White skin, black hair, famished frame.  Whenever she meets a new person, she liltingly offers her hand, palm down, and sighs, "Dauphine."  She does it like she's bored to tears with her name. 

       Trust me, she isn't.

       Her message was, "Pepper, I know you're home.  I've just driven by your place and I've seen your car.  Meet me at Drag at seven or incur my wrath."

       Yes, she always talks like that.  Like she's a character in one of those lipstick and high fashion pulp novels.  I keep expecting her to use the word 'Dahling' but she never does.  If I ever write about her using that word, that will be a lie on my part.  I will try not to but I may do it unintentionally.  I have unfairly married her and the word 'Dahling' in my mind and divorce is unlikely.  I hear that Carl Sagan never actually used the term, "Billions and billions."  It just fit him so perfectly we're all convinced he said it regularly.  It's like that.

       Of course, I went to the restaurant at seven.  I like Drago.  There is a poster on an easel outside of it with a picture of the chef/owner.  She looks like one of those down to earth, unassumingly mannish lesbians.  That is a lot of information to get from a picture, sure, but I don't care if I'm wrong.  Also, the food is really accessible.  There's never anything on the menu that I don't understand.  I enjoy trying new things on occasion but mostly I'm just hungry and I want something predictably good.  Clever fusions have their place and that place is not ubiquity.

       When I walked into the restaurant, I looked at the hostess and pointed into the dining area to indicate I was meeting somebody.  She said, "Go ahead," as I passed her.  I noticed a man looking at my body and he caught me seeing this.  I gave him a smile meant to convey that I appreciated the attention which is quite flattering but hoped he wouldn't hit on me because I wasn't really in the right frame of mind to be entertaining offers.  I probably just looked sheepish.

       Dauphine was drinking some yellow martini with a green cocktail onion in it. 

       "That is such a cute dress," she said.

       I searched her outfit for something to compliment.  "Thanks.  I like those earrings." 

       We are women.  This is how we shake hands.

       I ordered a gin and tonic.  Dauphine calls it my signature drink which always makes me want to switch to beer. 

       "So, Franklin called me this morning.  He was beside himself that I had kissed another man at the club last night.  Oh, I kissed another man at a club last night.  In front of Franklin.  That's important to know for this particular story."

       "Why did you do that?"

       "Franklin and I are not exclusive.  He's never even brought up the possibility of marriage."

       "You kissed the man to make Franklin jealous?"

       "No.  I am simply saying that I did nothing wrong, technically."

       "So, why did you do it?"

       "Oh, you know me.  I was pretty drunk, too."

       I wanted to say, "I don't know you.  I have no idea who the hell you are.  Do you even know you?"  But I didn't.  I asked, "Did you talk to this guy first or did you just grab a random stranger and..."

       "Of course we spoke.  He was cute and charming.  And ingratiating.  Quite kissable, really."

       It's exhausting to be with a constant performer.  "Okay, fine.  What happened with Franklin."

       "You know, that guy would be perfect for you, come to think of it."  She knows he's attracted to her.  That's what makes him perfect for me.  I could imagine the constant pulse-taking, You aren't insecure about me having kissed your boyfriend, are you? or Do you ever feel odd that you met your boyfriend because he hit on me?  It only now occurred to me that it's almost as though I'm giving you my overflow.

       I distracted her by giving her what she wanted.  "Come now, don't leave me hanging.  I'm dying to know.  What did Franklin say?"

       "Oh.  Well, there were some fairly hysterical histrionics.  He actually called me a whore."

       "Mmm."

       "I told him what I just told you.  We're not exclusive.  We've never discussed marriage.  He has no right to expect me to put all my eggs in one rickety little basket with commitment issues."

       "I'd have commitment issues if my girlfriend kissed another guy."

       "Oh, rest it.  He was this way before this little event."

       "Why, though?  Why do you think that?  I mean, I've never had this 'exclusivity talk' people go on about.  I always just assume it.  It seems like the sort of thing you take for granted after a certain amount of time."

       "Oh, no.  You should never simply assume such a thing.  You put yourself at great risk of heartache."

       "No, that's not...what I'm saying is that maybe he assumed the two of you were exclusive.  It sounds like he did."

       "Well, that was his mistake.  I fail to see how that is my fault."

       I felt ridiculous that I was going to have to explain this to her.  It was like when I was helping an elderly coworker with her computer and realized I had to explain to her that different internet browsers all accessed the same internet.  If she didn't know this by now, telling her most likely wouldn't improve the situation.  But, I said it anyway.  "I don't think it matters whose fault it is.  See, it's just a problem that needs a solution, right?  He thought you were exclusive and you didn't.  The two of you just need to clear that up.  Tell him what you want.  If you want to be exclusive, tell him that.  If you don't want to be exclusive, tell him that.  Then he will know what his situation is and you won't have another misunderstanding."

       She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink.  I realized at that moment that she liked me as little as I liked her.  Our common thread, what kept us together, was our willingness to endure each other.  Or was that all it was?  It didn't seem like it.  No, she definitely gave me something I hungered for.  For the life of me, I couldn't grasp what it was.  I thought it might be that it made me feel better about myself to be next to such a despicable person.  That wasn't the answer.  It came too easy to explain it that way.  It was self deprecating enough to convince myself I wasn't hiding any ugly truths from myself.  It worked very well as an explanation but for one little thing.  I knew it wasn't true.

       She said, "Well, we aren't on speaking terms at the moment so I don't see that conversation, or any other for that matter, happening."

       "What was the very last thing he said to you?"

       The waiter came and took our order.  When he had left she said, "Fuck you," and took a prissy sip of her drink.  "That was the last thing he said.  Then he hung up."

       "This happened today?"

       "Yes."

       She wasn't wearing a bra.  Women with small breasts don't know how envious that makes us buxom women.  No bra and a loose blouse that looked capable of accidentally flashing a nipple.  I suddenly saw my whole night unfold ahead of me.  As loathe as I was to go along with it, it was something to do.  It was an activity that would, if nothing else, fill time.  "I guess you know where he is going to be tonight."

       She smiled a wicked little smile, a smile of shared secrets and deep mutual understanding.  "You know me so well."

       And, with that, the subject was dropped.  We talked about our jobs, our days, people we knew.  Then we left and headed to the club where Franklin would be.  Franklin is an average looking guy but for his great height.  He towers over Dauphine.  I often wonder if she calls him 'Daddy' in bed.  Most likely, the attraction isn't sexual, she just likes the status symbol aspect of being with a man twice her height.  Like most very tall men, he is noticeably not overbearing. 

       Dauphine seemed at ease in the club, I was very uncomfortable.  I felt a pang of pity for Franklin which quickly subsided.  He was an informed participant.  I can say a lot of bad things about Dauphine but the word 'duplicitous' won't be found in them.  She lets you know who she is.

       She flirted with many, random guys.  She danced erotically with many, random guys.  Franklin talked with his friends, pretending not to see.  I sat at the bar, drinking and being embarrassed for us all.  Franklin ultimately approached her on the dance floor.  I hoped something huge and dramatic would happen to somehow justify this ridiculous exercise.  A fist fight or a marriage proposal.  Good or bad didn't matter, just make it big.  But it was a useless, fizzle of a resolution.  They spoke, Dauphine came and apologized to me because she had to go home with Franklin and talk, leaving me alone.

       I said it was fine, not bothering to mention that she'd left me alone at the club all night thus far.  I stayed and drank, wishing I'd brought a book but thinking I would look pretty silly reading a book at a dance club.  I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was my boss, Roman. 

       "Hey," he said.  "It's funny seeing you here.  It feels so out of context."

       I felt nervous, like I'd been caught doing something wrong.  "I know.  How are you?"

       "Good.  Good."  He was doing that thing everybody does in clubs, where you shout but try to make it seem like you are talking normally.  "You look good.  I've never seen you dressed up for the town.  It suits you."

       "Thanks."  That really did settle well with me.  Roman was the kind of guy you could imagine getting any woman he wanted.  He was a serious guy, a decent guy, but he looked dangerous.  He looked like he could be a drug dealer or a rock star, he had that scruffy, neglect of grooming look you see in total losers and extremely dedicated people.  He had hair down to his mid back, which only flies since we're in the computer industry.  "You don't look so bad, yourself," I said, feeling like a complete nerd for the effort.

       "You here alone?"

       "Yes.  I came with my friend but she had to leave," putting a lot of effort into seeming unconcerned.

       He perked up.  "Yeah?  You need a ride?"

       "I'm walking distance."

       "It's kind of dangerous.  Want me to walk you home?"

       I felt like I was at my first boy-girl dance, the first time a boy asked me to dance.  I was nervous and excited and suspicious that the whole thing was some cruel dare.  Go ask the fat girl to dance, or do you want 'truth' instead?  I wasn't fat anymore but I still felt like I was.  I felt like I had a fat girl's personality, too receptive to male attention.  Like this moment right here:  "Sure!" I said with a big smile.

       As we walked to my place, I could almost feel the heat coming off of his body.  I was probably imagining it but it made me want to touch him, all the same.  I wanted to grab his hand and hold it.  I wanted to kiss him when we got to my place.  I looked at him expectantly, trying to give him a look that conveyed invitation.  I probably just looked drunk.

       "Listen, Pepper..."

       I lifted my brow, thinking, this is going to happen, I can't believe this is going to happen.

       "...hmmm.  No, never mind.  I'll see you on Monday."

       I spent the next half hour looking at more internet porn and masturbating.  I fell asleep watching television.  I guess Roman was deciding to look into my internet activity at work.  Or maybe he already had at this point.  He didn't bring it up until Friday, after avoiding me all week.